Ghost Letters by Stephen Alter

Just to Delhi where my aunt lives. Maybe next time I go, I’ll visit Ajeebgarh. But of course, you won’t be there. That seems kind of weird.
    Just writing this note, I’m getting creeped out. Hope you’re safe, with all of the war and stuff.
    Nargis
    Dear Gil and Nargis,
    Thanks for writing. I was feeling very depressed today because my father, who is one of the maharajah’s bodyguards, has been posted to the palace barracks, which means the fighting is going to start soon. We don’t know when it will begin, but all of the foreigners who live in Ajeebgarh are leaving, including Lawrence’s parents. There doesn’t seem to be any chance that he is still alive.
    Even though I sometimes feel hopeless, your letter cheered me up. Of course I know what bhindi is. My mother cooks it sometimes, though it’s not my favorite vegetable. Too slimy. I wish both of you could visit Ajeebgarh—maybe not now, but at some other time (maybe in the future, when all of the fighting is over). Sometimes it’s so confusing. For you, all of this is history. You can probably read about it in a book. For me, it’s happening right now, today and tomorrow.
    Please keep writing. My mother doesn’t want me to leave the house, but I sneaked out to the river today because I had to see if the bottle was there with your reply.
    Best wishes,
    Sikander

18
A Rolltop Desk
    Upstairs, at the end of the hall, beyond Gil’s room, lay a small study. It was no more than eight feet square, with a single window overlooking the sea. His grandfather’s office was downstairs—a large, untidy room full of books and papers. The upstairs study was completely different and felt almost empty, except for an old-fashioned, rolltop writing desk and a padded chair with rickety arms. On the floor lay a faded carpet, and against one wall stood a bookcase that was mostly empty. Only one framed picture hung in the study, an old etching of a battle scene, with soldiers and cannons. Gil didn’t pay much attention to it.
    He was still puzzled by the disappearance of the hand, the strange messages in the bottle, and what Lenore had told him about his future. She and Prescott had driven up to Boston that morning to attend an art exhibit. Though Gil had been invited, he had decided to stay home. Feeling bored and restless, heneeded something to do. Throwing himself into the study chair, Gil tried to lift the cover of the desk but it was locked. There were drawers on either side, and when he opened the first one, he saw a tarnished brass key tied to a piece of yellow yarn. When he tried it, the key clicked smoothly in the lock and the top of the writing desk rolled up and out of sight.
    Inside the desk were dozens of pigeonholes, miniature drawers and slots. It reminded Gil of a dollhouse one of his cousins used to have. The surface of the desk was covered in green felt, which had ink stains on it and was coming loose at one corner. Everything was neatly arranged inside—a set of sharpened pencils lying in a shallow groove, a couple of erasers and a copper bowl full of paper clips and pins. On one side, he saw a tiny weighing scale and an ancient-looking stapler. Each of the pigeonholes had different objects tucked inside: a pair of scissors, a magnifying glass and tweezers. Another drawer was full of used stamps and clear envelopes that looked as if they were made of waxed paper.
    Exploring the desk was like exploring a house within a house, with different levels and secret compartments. Most of the things Gil found were ordinary objects: a tube of glue, a ruler, unused envelopes. But there were also unusual things: a box full of folded bits of gummed paper and a letter opener shaped like a scimitar, with a bright-colored enamel handle. In one of the upper pigeonholes, he discovered a round glass paperweight, inside of which were swirls of orange and red that looked like flames.
    The larger, lower drawers on either side of